Hold on to Your Cats

"Has Tibby put on weight?" our catsitter texted last weekend. "She seems heavier, but it might be I'm comparing her to the kittens."

"Or it could be because she is so large and in charge!" I replied with a laughing emoji because, to be honest, I think she's pretty much the same as ever.

Our former dogwalker agrees with me. She stopped by this afternoon, and as we visited, she sat in the rocking chair by the sliding doors leading to the deck. Tibby ran over and tried to convince her to open the doors and let her out into the blustery day. "No way, Tibby!" Sarah said, "You'll blow away out there!" She turned to me and sighed, "If we only had a functioning national weather service, I'm sure they would issue a small pet warning for today."

It Makes You Smart

 I’ve always loved trivia quizzes, word games, and other tests of knowledge, and in my retirement I have found quite a few daily challenges. (Too many, perhaps, but that’s a story for another day.) 

Some of the hardest trivia quizzes for me are to be found on the Slate website. Each week day they have a different topic: history, culture, vocabulary, science, and current news. With the exception of the news quiz, they all have six questions, and they are not easy: I usually get between 3 and 5  

If you choose to compete, you are vying against other readers, the readers’ average, and a selected staff member. It’s not unusual for me to beat the average, and the Slatesters and I might be 50-50. Placing in the top 50 of all who choose to take the quiz is a rare occurrence for me. 

But today? As I say in a classroom of students busily working while their teacher finished up her sub plans so I could take over on a 911 sub job, I decided to take the science quiz to pass the time. And what do you know? That rarified atmosphere of teaching and learning did the trick! I got them all  and in good time. So yeah, that was me, number 27 of all those other quizsters. 

Of course, I credit my education. 

Bed Rest

I was dragging the last of my garbage bags to the gate when I met a fellow gardener on her way in. She kindly spun the combination lock for me and stepped aside as I moved the four contractor bags to the curb.

"Did you get it all cleaned out?" she asked me through the chain link as she locked back up. 

"Pretty much," I told her. "That's my plot in the corner." We scanned my empty beds, and she nodded appreciatively.

"I'm in that one over there," she gestured over her shoulder.

"Are those your tomatoes I can see?" I asked.

She nodded wearily. "They're still going for now, but I hope to take them out this afternoon." She frowned. "I'm always so excited to get started in the spring," she sighed, "but it all seems like such a chore at the end of the season."

"There is something cathartic for me in seeing the empty plot," I replied, considering the last three hours I'd spent.

"I guess so," she agreed. "But only because it will be ready in the spring!"

Rolling Mercury

At the bowling center where my league competes on Tuesday mornings, they congratulate anyone who bowls over 200, announcing the feat over the loudspeaker. So far, my high score has been only 148, but I confess I aspire to the honor of hearing my name called. 

Part of what I like about the sport is that every game is another opportunity to hit a new milestone, and I am always optimistic that I might do it, at least through the first few frames. I had a pretty good start to my first game today: two strikes followed by two spares, and I ended up with a respectable 145. Coincidentally, a player on our league bowled 212 in that same round, and we all cheered when her name was called. Bowling can be mercurial, though, because the next round she only bowled 125. 

My scores also steadily declined as the morning rolled on, but it's hard to get too upset, especially when there's always another game and another chance next week.

Wild Wood

 It's been a while since I checked my trail cam to see what the local wildlife has been up to. Imagine my surprise when I came across this documentation of willful raccoon vandalism:

After that, the camera was facing the ground, so I wondered what the rest of the videos might hold, but I could not have predicted what I saw next.

I wished I had some footage to help him, especially since he was nice enough to fix the camera! But unless the raccoon was an accomplice to the crime, I had nothing but leaves.

No Si and Am

"I know you just got out of the car," our pet sitter said when we got home early this afternoon from a wedding in Richmond, "but how would you feel about giving me a ride home and meeting the kittens?"

"Who can say no to kittens!" I replied. She and her family had just adopted a pair of 10-week-old Siamese littermates from a rescue organization, and the friendly little purr balls did not disappoint.

As I was cuddling with one, the other trilled from Heidi's arms. "She's calling her sister to play!" Molly said, so we set them down, and they dashed over to their toys where they leapt and rolled and wrestled, knocking into things with abandon.

"Adorable!" I gushed. "Just don't show them Lady and the Tramp!"

Axial Tilt

The wood guy came by the other day. "I know it's still kinda warm," he said, "but we were in the neighborhood."

I had answered the door in shorts and a t-shirt, and we had some wood left from the spring. We probably wouldn't have a fire for a few more weeks, but the leaves in the woods across the way were tinged with rust and gold, and acorns blanketed the ground beneath the oak. He was there, and the season was changing. "Let's fill the rack up," I agreed.

This morning, the thermostat in the dining room read 63. It was a little chilly even in my flannel and slippers, but I was hesitant to turn the heat on; I knew it would involve switching the vents, closing all the windows, and changing the filter in the air handler. Still, we were going away for the night, and a sitter was staying with Lucy and the cats. We might have bundled up and slept under extra blankets for another night or two, but for her, I made the switch from summer settings to winter. She is coming, and the season is changing.

Why I Love the Shoe Repair Shop

 "Um," I started as I placed Heidi's trail runner on the shoe repair counter, "this..." I gestured at the dangling metal eyelet, "is broken."

"Oh!" the friendly repairman laughed. "The hooky thingy came off!"

"I knew there was a technical term for it!" I agreed.

"Boot hook," he told me, "but this one's shot." He showed me why it was unusable and went to fetch a few replacement options from the back.

Ten minutes and fifteen bucks later, a new hooky thingy was in place.

Orderly

I felt lucky that the math teacher I was subbing for yesterday had a planning period before her classes, because I needed it to review linear equations, particularly plotting parallel and perpendicular lines. But once I recalled how to determine the slope, I was feeling much more confident. It also reminded me of how fascinating I found the perpendicular rule when I first learned it —the whole notion of using the negative reciprocal of the slope for the new line just tickles my brain the right way. It also reminds me that there is an elegant order for so many things, if only we recognize the patterns. 

I had the same feeling last week in a sixth-grade science class when the teacher explained how the early periodic table was stumbled upon by Dmitri Mendeleev in the 1860s. Mendeleev was a chemist and card collector who designed a set of cards based on the known elements. He arranged his cards by atomic weight and then in columns by common properties. As he played with the arrangement, he saw gaps in his table, predicted they would be filled by elements yet to be discovered, and described the characteristics of those future elements. 

Mendeleev is widely considered a genius not for creating the order, but for recognizing it.

Every Day Can't Be the Best Day

"Didn't you retire?" an eighth grader asked me this afternoon in the middle of a particularly rowdy math class. And when I nodded, he added a salty little follow-up, "Then why are you back?"

"I was just asking myself the same question," I laughed.

To his credit, he looked abashed, but unfortunately, it didn't make him any more productive.

Weekly Bowling Report

 

The Pro Shop

I'm not sure what I expected a few weeks ago when I walked into the pro shop on a mission to purchase a bowling ball of my own. I did not enter the chore blindly; as a citizen of the 21st century, I YouTubed it first. There, I found a video of a kindly avuncular gentleman in a bowling shirt and cardigan guiding a young woman as she chose her first bowling ball. 

He asked her all sorts of questions about her game and experience before revealing that he had seen her bowl a few times. Then he offered her some suggestions, "Don't go too light," he had advised her, "that's a rookie mistake." In the end, she chose a flashy little 14-pounder, and they cut to her rolling it down the lane for a strike.

The next day, I pushed my way through the plate-glass door into the pro shop and stood uncertainly in the middle of the deserted showroom. As I scanned the three rows of bowling balls lining the wall to my right and the shoes displayed in the rear, an owlish man in a craftsman's apron hurried out from the back. "I'm the only one here!" he informed me, "I'll be with you in a minute." Then he disappeared.

I was looking more closely at the balls when he returned, wiping his hands on a bright orange cloth. "What do you need?" he asked.

"I'm here to buy a bowling ball," I said and paused, waiting for the guidance. 

Perhaps I expected him to say something like, "The ball chooses the bowler," or "Every ball here at Carmen-Don has a core of a powerful magical substance," but instead he gestured impatiently at the shelves and said, "Which one do you want?"

"To be honest," I confessed, "I have no idea. I'm a beginner. But I'm in a league, and they recommended I get my own ball."

He sighed impatiently. "What weight do you usually use at the bowling center?"

"Ten or eleven," I answered.

"I'd recommend at least a 12 then," he said. "Does it go straight or curve when you throw it?"

"I have a bit of a natural curve, I think," I told him.

"Pick one from the bottom row," he waved. "You should just choose one you like the looks of, you don't need anything specific," he shrugged. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

I scanned the half dozen balls he had indicated. Most were garish swirls of neon colors, and I recognized the siblings of some of my fellow bowlers' balls. But there was one at the end that spoke to me. It was classic black with a single orange dot and a matching hammer. "I'll take this one," I told him when he returned.

He nodded thoughtfully. "That ball does have a little action in the core," he said. "It's not much at 12 pounds, but it will be something to work with." There was a grudging note of respect in his voice. "Let's measure your hand."

He led me over to the glass counter and pulled out a set of cylinders. "Hold out your hand," he directed. I splayed my fingers wide, and he took my wrist. "Interesting," he commented. "Have you ever broken your fingers?"

"No," I shook my head.

"They're crooked," he noted. "Bend your knuckles." I did. "Interesting," he said again. "Would you ever consider a finger tip grip? Your middle fingers bend at the first knuckle."

I laughed and shrugged. "Maybe for my next ball. For now? Let's go traditional."

He measured the distance between my fingers and thumb and then slid them into some of the cylinders and wrote the measurements on a small pad of paper. And it all did seem a little magical, especially when he withdrew into the back again, calling over his shoulder that he would be back shortly.

A few minutes later, he reappeared in a cloud of urethane and oil scent, bearing a simple black bowling ball. He draped my hand over its crown and fit my fingers and thumb gently into the still-warm holds. "How does it feel?" he asked, turning my hand palm up and releasing the weight to me.

I bent my wrist, feeling the heft of the ball. My thumb slid neatly in and out. "Nice," I nodded, as he stepped across the room.

"Roll it to me," he instructed.

I took a step and bent, releasing the ball in one smooth gesture. It rolled directly to him, and he clapped once. "Bravo!" Then he scooped up the ball, replaced it in its box, and stepped to the register.

It seemed my ball had found me.

Straight On 'til Morning

"Isn't this the hike we took Pauly on?" Heidi asked as we crested the hill and turned onto the Ridge Trail.

I nodded. That was years ago, maybe even fifteen, but it had been several years since we had been there ourselves. As we walked along Difficult Run, I thought of the many times we had followed this route and all the good company we had had along the way: Bill, Emily, Riley, Treat, Eric, Josh, Pauly, Jessica, Tom, Amy, and so many others.

I picked up an enormous sycamore leaf and fashioned it into an angular green Peter Pan cap and placed it on my head. We laughed, remembering the autumn day we had brought our goddaughters, Allyn and Delaney, hiking here. When the skies had opened up, we all made rain hats from the sycamore leaves to keep our heads dry as we made for the trailhead.

Heidi snapped my picture and texted it to the girls, now grown women. They were quick to reply with hearts and a question. "Who is that Diva?"

Churl Talk

I was searching for the hours to the community center, which is attached to my former school, when a link to an online discussion forum caught my eye. An anonymous author had posted a question about the quality of the school, particularly compared to another middle school in the northern, more affluent section of the county. The other school was Heidi's new school, and I clicked to the discussion with interest. 

The conversation took place over several hours on an October evening two years ago, when we were both still teaching there. At first, I was a little appalled that people were actually having such a public, if anonymous, discussion about me, my colleagues, and our students without our knowledge. There was also quite a bit of mis- and perhaps some disinformation. There were a couple of compliments, as well, but the two comments that broke my heart were these:

Yes, there are more poor kids than several of the other neighborhood middle schools but good discipline and stable teaching force manage the poor kids well enough for us.

And

I’m sure there is a bright cadre of kids [at my school] but there are way more kids on balance who are going to have needs just due to demographics. [the other school] is going to have — again on balance — a much larger group of very bright, very motivated kids. It’s my belief that kids are some of the strongest influences on each other and while you could find your way into that group at [my school] for sure you are much more likely to have that opportunity at [the other school] plus the overall dynamic is going to be less needs driven.

The second remark drew a sharp response:

My students have a large enough peer group of "very bright, very motivated" kids to rub shoulders with at school. Believe it or not, some of these kids aren't from well-off families. Heaven help us, they're from hardscrabble recent immigrant families where academic success is paramount. Their parents may have been professionals in Afghanistan, Syria, Venezuela or Mongolia, but some of them are janitors or Lyft drivers in VA for now. Needs-driven peers who put nose to the grindstone and don't compete to have the snazziest stuff seem like good influences on my spoiled children.

To which somebody replied:

Agree 100%. Uptight parents who boost for [the other school] are a drag. [My school] remains a solid choice for the mildly adventurous.

I was glad the thread ended so long ago, because after that? I was speechless. 

Last Hurrah

I spent a couple of hours this afternoon cleaning out the garden for the winter, but I made a final harvest first. In addition to a ton of blackeyed peas, there were still a lot of cherry tomatoes and peppers, so I cut a couple of healthy sprigs from the rosemary shrub and tucked them in the bag with the veggies. 

Back at home, I crushed some of the garlic I grew earlier in the season and sauteed it in a big glug of olive oil. Then I shaved a Marconi pepper into the pan and added some rosemary. A little while later, all those tiny tomatoes were popping and blistering in the oil, too. Once they started bursting, I added some sea salt and a jar of crushed tomatoes I had canned back in August. 

As the sauce simmered, I roasted a spaghetti squash, also from the garden. And in a few moments, with the addition of some fresh basil harvested from the deck? Dinner will be served!

Balancing Equations

The eighth graders were excited to see me when I entered the science lab. 

My sixth-grade science job was over, but I'd been asked to provide backup to another sub in a class that was known to be high-energy. Just like the sixth graders, these older kids were working on basic chemistry, but they were applying what they had learned about atoms and molecules in past years to balance chemical equations. 

I was delighted to find that I remembered it all from high school, and I was able to circulate through the room, answer questions, and help the students as they practiced.

"You're really good at this!" one of my former students told me. 

"You're really good at it, too," I returned the compliment, because he was.

"Maybe even better than English," he teased.

"Never!" I laughed and went to help somebody else.

Multilingual

My sub job today started in a small 6th-grade English class of seven students. They were working on word parts and taking a quiz, and I was one of four educators in the room. I didn't mind at all; it was fun to work one-on-one with some of the kids. Near the end of the block, I sat across from a boy practicing identifying action and state of being verbs. "Can you do it?" I asked him whenever he was stumped. "If yes, it's an action verb."

He did get a little stuck on the verb seem, though. 

"Can you do it?" I asked, and when he nodded, I raised my eyebrows and said, "Show me."

He sat very still for a moment and then tried several facial expressions, finally settling on a smooth, neutral look. "I seem calm," he told me.

"Calm is a feeling," I replied. "It's something you can be, that's why seem is a state of being verb."

He nodded again. "Do you speak other languages?" he asked.

It was a fair question. "Not really," I admitted. "I know some vocabulary in Spanish, and I took French in high school."

"I speak Spanish," he told me, "but I want to learn French."

"It's a fun language to learn," I agreed.

"I really want to know the word vagatay." He pronounced it slowly.

"I don't know that one," I said. "How do you think it's spelled?"

"V-G-T," he paused, searching for phonemes. "Another G?" he suggested, and then sighed. "It's a kind of food," he explained.

I thought for a moment. "Is it bread?" I asked him. "Do you mean baguette?"

"Vagette?" he repeated.

"No, it's a B. Baaaa-guette," I exaggerated. "But I guess B is pronounced like a V in Spanish, right?"

"Yes!" he said. "That's probably why I was confused."

"You're learning in three languages!" I replied. "That's pretty good!"

The Ice

There was a rather taciturn young man at the register when I carried my handbasket of produce over. He greeted me, but did not make eye contact or conversation. Sometimes I wonder if it's easy for young people to dismiss me or hard for them to engage with me because I'm a white woman of a certain age, and I felt a bit awkward standing silently as he scanned and expertly packed my groceries. I'm an introvert myself, but while he worked, I searched for a way to connect with him.

"Perfect!" I said as he slid the last item into the bag. "What a great packing job!"

"Thank you," he said with the trace of a smile.

"That's an art!" I continued.

"It really is," he agreed, his face opening up. 

"And you're an artist," I laughed appreciatively.

"You gotta do something to make work fun," he nodded as I tapped my card. 

"Enjoy the rest of your day," he smiled as he handed me the bag, and I could tell he meant it.

Payoff

When Heidi switched jobs this school year, we were hopeful that since the position was more direct support for students and less instructional prep, she would have more free time after school hours and on weekends. 

At the beginning of the year, this was not true, as setting up the program and collaborating with many other staff members to implement academic support for her students was very time-consuming. She ended up working just as many extra hours as before. Even so, we hoped it would be an investment, and it seems it might have been. 

"I'm kind of at loose ends," Heidi said on Friday afternoon when she arrived home an hour after the bell. "I don't really have any work this weekend." It was an off week for her soccer team, too, so it felt like she had lots of extra time. We spent it sleeping in, taking Lucy on long walks, hosting a dinner party, doing a jigsaw puzzle, watching a movie, going bowling, hitting golf balls at Top Golf, and shopping. It was almost like a vacation. 

"I could get used to this!" Heidi said this afternoon. 

I could, too.

Porchetta

Emily asked for a fall dinner featuring pork for her birthday, and I got it into my head that I would make porchetta. Traditionally, this rolled, slow-roasted herby pork dish was made from the belly and loin of a whole pig. Early in the 20th century, Italian immigrants in Philadelphia adapted it to use more available butcher cuts, and an American classic was born.

I found lots of different recipes and techniques to prepare porchetta, but I was drawn to one that combined pounded pork belly and pork tenderloin. Tenderloin is readily available in any grocery store, but I had seen slabs of pork belly at the big box warehouse just a couple of days before. When I headed over there to get some, though, I realized the packages were 8-10 pounds each. 

Believe me, I thought about it long and hard before leaving the place empty-handed, but I just could not justify the extra pounds of pork belly. "We probably could have given the extra away," Heidi suggested generously when I told her of my plight. Could we have, though?

As this was Friday morning and the roast needed to be rolled a day in advance, suddenly, I was on the clock. The next place I shopped was a supermarket in a chain known for its natural and organic inventory. They did have pork belly, but it was already portioned, and the butcher apologetically informed me that there were no larger pieces in back. As the prospect of finding what I wanted dimmed, I bought a couple of Breton chops, thinking they might come in handy should I have to pivot.

The next couple of places did not stock pork belly at all, so I threw some boneless shoulder chops and thick-cut bacon into my cart alongside the pork tenderloin. And, since I wanted to serve it with an intense, porky jus, I also tossed a rack of ribs (on sale) and six chicken legs.

And that's what I had to work with when I got home later that afternoon. I lined a baking sheet with plastic wrap and nestled slices of the relatively lean bacon side by side. Then I pounded the well-marbled shoulder chops into uniform oblongs and laid them over the bacon. I sprinkled some toasted fennel seed, rosemary, and red pepper powder from my garden over the meat. Then I butterflied the tenderloin and rubbed it with the same spice mix before placing it atop the other pork. I rolled the whole thing tightly and placed it in the fridge to rest for 24 hours.

The porky jus simmered a couple of hours the next afternoon while the porchetta roasted in a low oven. When it reached 140 degrees, I took it out and let it rest, turning the oven to 475 for its final blast to crisp up the bacon.

It was only when everyone arrived that I considered what a gamble I had taken. I had no idea how the main dish was going to turn out until it was time to serve it. Even so, my confidence, or over-confidence, in the kitchen set my mind at ease. And when I sliced into it? It looked great, a perfect spiral of tender pork and herbs. 

It also passed my one true cooking test. As we enjoyed the roast, its sauce, some spelt, and a fall vegetable platter, I posed a question to my guests. "Would you ask for this again?" I inquired, and they allowed as they would.

Shopping with the Quipster

We were running a few errands today and stopped into a home store. As we made our way past the Halloween decorations to the rear of the store, we saw that their Christmas merchandise was on full display. "Wow, this place is the mullet of holiday sales," I laughed. "Halloween in the front, Christmas in the back!"

At our next stop, all the Halloween stuff was already on clearance. "I can't believe Halloween is over," I lamented, ironically. "Especially since it's not for three weeks!"

The Tween Whisperer

"He is very angry, and sometimes his interactions with staff can range from disrespectful to profane," the assistant told me when I asked about the one student in the program I was subbing for. 

I saw what he meant a moment later when the seventh grader came in, pacing restlessly around the room. When I introduced myself, he ignored me. "You're breakfast is there," the assistant said, gesturing toward the desk.

"I'm not blind, Bruh!" the kid exploded. "I can see the fucking food." He continued to walk the perimeter of the room and then asked to take a walk. His one-to-one aide went with him. While they were gone, another teacher came by to ask that they make sure he got to his first class on time, since there was a guest speaker. "He can come back here to work afterwards," she shrugged, "but it would be less disruptive if he were there when the bell rang.

The assistant was still talking to her in the hall when the student returned. "Your science teacher came to tell you that there's a guest speaker today," I said to him. He turned with interest. "She wants to make sure you're on time so you don't miss it," I added.

He nodded. "I used to teach here," I told him. "I still know a bunch of kids. Who are you friends with?"

He mentioned a few people I did know, and I told him so, offering enough information to show I wasn't faking it. "Do you play any sports?" I asked him.

From there, we talked about football, P.E., his favorite class, where he went to elementary school, and even how he did back in second grade when COVID hit and he had to learn remotely from home. Before we knew it, it was time for him to go so that he would be on time for the speaker in science.

"Have a good class!" I said as his one-to-one escorted him out the door.

"Wow," the assistant said when they were gone. "He actually had a conversation with you. I have not seen that from him before."

I laughed. "Middle school kids can't resist me!"

Who'd've Thought They'd Lead Ya?

A young man was standing in the front office when I reported for sub duty this morning. "Oh, Ms. S!" the coordinator greeted me, "Maybe you can answer his question." She gestured toward the guy.

"When do we get paid?" he asked me.

"Oh, it takes a minute!" I laughed. "They pay us twice a month, but it's for the pay period before. I just got paid for the first couple of weeks of September last week."

He nodded in understanding, and there was something about his dark brown eyes, curly hair, and high cheekbones that seemed familiar to me.

"Did you go here?" I asked him.

He nodded. "Just for one year."

"Sixth grade, right?" I said. "What's your name?"

I recognized it the minute he told me. "I was your English teacher! Remember?"

He shrugged apologetically, but the sub coordinator was delighted. "What was he like then?" she asked.

He looked a little embarrassed. "He was very energetic," I answered diplomatically.

"My parents always tell me that being a substitute is my karma for the way I acted," he said. "So I make sure I'm extra patient with the students."

"They're lucky to have you, then," I replied, "because that's not always easy," and he smiled for the first time in the conversation.

Question of the Week

I stopped by the warehouse store on my way home from bowling yesterday, thinking that early afternoon on a Tuesday might be less busy than usual. I couldn't have been more wrong! I drove in circles around the enormous parking lot for ten minutes, trolling for a spot, any spot. When at last I found one and headed to join the line at the entrance, I ran into a neighbor who was exasperated by the crowd. "Who are all these people?" she demanded. "Really! On a Tuesday?"

"Maybe they are furloughed workers?" I suggested.

"I'd think they'd want to save their money," she scoffed, a bit unkindly.

Today, I met a couple of friends who are also retired for lunch. When I arrived at noon, the neighborhood restaurant was packed. Fortunately, I'd made a reservation, even though I didn't think we would need one.

It took our waiter a little while to make it to our table. "Sorry," he apologized. "It seems like we went from zero to sixty in ten minutes!" He swept his arm around at the busy dining room and sighed. "Who are all these people?"

Built-in Learning Curve

Tuesday is my bowling day, and I look forward to it with a mixture of pleasure and dread. Each week, the balance tips in favor of enjoyment, though, especially as I get to know my teammates and the other ladies. The stakes are both high and low; having a handicap evens the competition, but no matter their skill level, those bowlers play to win. As such, I don't want to let my team down, even as we cheer for the other team's successes. 

I bought my own bowling ball a few weeks ago. The guy at the pro shop asked me a few questions about my bowling style, and I readily admitted I was a novice. "You're in a league, though?" he clarified, and when I said I was he asked me even more questions about the lanes, the center, the other bowlers in my league, and the balls I had been using until then. He advised me to go with a ball that had a little spin action, especially since at the weight I was purchasing, 12 pounds, it would only make a minor difference. Then he measured my hand, placed my fingers in some cylinders, and went and drilled the ball for a custom fit.

I was eager to try it out, but I wanted to practice with it first, so Heidi and I went bowling over the weekend. I found that when I threw it, the curve was quite pronounced, and over the three games we bowled, I wasn't able to figure it out. I was frustrated and worried that I had chosen the wrong ball. Consequently, I've continued to bowl with the center's ball each Tuesday, trying to work on my own basics before introducing a new variable.

Today was the day I actually brought my new ball to the league. After a moment's hesitation, I put it on the rack along with my usual loaner and prepared to warm up. Everyone else was off looking at one of the bowler's new baby (a cute little month-old guy with white noise-canceling headphones on, because his mom couldn't wait to get back to bowling), when I stepped up to throw a few practice frames. 

My first ball was a strike, and I never picked up the borrowed ball again. I bowled 12 pins above my average for the day, too. I guess that pro shop guy knew what he was talking about!

Oui, Je Parle Français

In early September, when I first started working a couple of sub jobs a week, I was picky about which classes and grades I was willing to cover. I preferred sixth-grade teachers I knew, and even when the sub coordinator started offering me more jobs, I was choosy about the assignments. 

Somehow, being so particular has fallen to the wayside, though, and both last Friday and today, I showed up with no idea of what I would be doing. To be honest? It hasn't been too bad. Friday, I was in an English class for English Language Learners, and today I was in French. "OMG, you're everywhere!" a student cried when she saw me in her homeroom today. 

Although I took three years of French in high school and another two semesters in college, I never would have chosen the job for myself. Still, it turns out I remember more than enough of the language to be of considerable help to middle schoolers in French I. It was a fun day, and I felt even more validated when I received the highest praise possible from a seventh grader. "You were a pretty good sub," he told me before rushing off when the bell rang.

Merci!

Not Quite a Walk in the Park

The lake was drained.

In an effort to enjoy this pretty day (a tad too warm for October, but still pleasant), we headed to a regional park we have enjoyed for decades. It features a four-mile trail that loops around a man-made lake and winds through forests and a small neighborhood. The parking lot was full, but the lake was not. 

I had read a couple years ago that the constant dredging the lake needed to keep it free of the silt and runoff was becoming prohibitively expensive and disruptive to the surrounding neighbors, so the parks and rec was looking for a solution. 

Today I discovered that earlier in the year they attempted to drain the lake to inspect the dam's integrity, but one of the sluice gates malfunctioned and the project was put on hold until after Labor Day. As a result, the lake looks like a stream running through a mud flat, chain link fences are all around, along with signs warning visitors to stay away from the shore because of dangerous mud and quick sand. Call 911 if stuck, they advise. 

It wasn't the scenery we'd expected, but we set off anyhow. The next signs to catch our attention advised us to stay on the trail because of active archery in the surrounding woods, due to an ongoing deer culling program. Just then a black walnut fell from the tree and missed my head by inches. Stepping to the side of the trail, my boot rolled over another walnut in the leaf litter, and I stumbled before catching my balance.

On the other side of the lake, there were signs alerting us of a blue algae bloom and its potential fatality to dogs. When in doubt, keep them out! it counseled. As we continued on, I ran through the litany of threats we'd been presented with along the trail: global warming, pollution, quick mud, arrows, walnuts, and blue algae.

"The world seems sort of treacherous today," I commented to Heidi with a sigh.

Backseat Parker

On game days, parking is tight at the field complex where Heidi's soccer team plays. Even so, we are usually able to snag a space in the lot rather than parking on the grass and along the entry drive, as so many other soccer enthusiasts must. Today was no exception: the lot was crowded, but we were able to squeeze into a space between an SUV and an electric pickup truck. 

As Heidi went on ahead to check in with her fellow coaches and warm up the team, I relaxed in the driver's seat, fresh breeze and golden October sunshine streaming in through the open windows. By and by, the truck loaded up and hummed away, and a minivan pulled right into the spot it had vacated. I heard the door of the van roll open, and a boy of no more than six stood indignantly on its threshold. "Excuse me!" he called through my open window. "Can you move your car over?"

He was no more than 18 inches away, and I looked purposefully over my sunglasses at him and then to the SUV to my right. "No," I answered.

His mother hastily, yet carefully, opened the passenger-side door. "It's fine!" she told him, or maybe me. "We have a big car," she said, definitely to him. "We can carefully get our things and go to the game."

He scoffed, unconvinced, but as the family bustled up to the fields, I noticed that his dad and sisters were able to get out on their side without any trouble. 

Feeling It

I subbed in class for English language learners today, and I really enjoyed teaching the basic skills and knowledge included in the textbook lesson that their teacher had left. Perhaps my favorite part was an activity on the many shades of meaning that the verb "feel" can have. 

In the first paragraph of the text, the word was used three times in different ways: How do you feel about nature? What do you feel like doing after a long day? And how do you feel after being outside? The nuance was something that a native speaker like me rarely considers. Still, these English language learners had to parse each one and match it with its meaning, identifying which usage expresses an opinion, which shows a desire, and which refers to physical or emotional sensations. 

Of course, I could do it, but explaining it to students with emerging language skills proved to be challenging. Even so, I felt it was a valuable experience. (I also felt like skipping the gym and heading straight home after teaching three solid blocks with only a lunch break, even though I knew I would feel better if I went.)

Dinosaurs

I had a doctor's appointment this morning. Ever since I rolled my ankle in early August, my right foot's plantar fascia has been sore. This is the same one I ruptured while running on New Year's Day 1994. That day, I heard a pop, and at first I thought I had kicked a rock into the curb, but a moment later, I couldn't walk on that foot. 

This was pre-Internet, so I hopped home, wondering what I could have possibly done to myself. Then I iced it and wrapped it with an ace bandage. Fortunately, my sister had a podiatrist, and I was able to get an appointment right away when I called the next morning. Dr. P. was a runner and specialized in sports injuries, but he was nice to a non-athlete like me, too. 

As we talked, he mentioned how fascinated his two-year-old daughter was with their new home computer, and told me that there was actually software available for kids that young. Since I had recently purchased my first Mac, and my nephew was nearly the same age, I was all over it. That's how Millie's Math House became a favorite activity whenever he and his brother were over. It was an animated program for kids aged 2-5, featuring seven activity options that integrated counting skills.

It's hard to believe now, but educational technology was brand new then. As for podiatry, it doesn't seem like much has changed in the last three decades, except that Dr. P is retired now. (And we use online portals now, although I did notice that the young members of the staff were a little patronizing when it came to that. Are you able to access the portal? I was asked more than once, with slightly insincere deference.)

My new podiatrist recommended the same stretches that I used when I first got out of my cast. He also fit me for orthotics, which did the trick last time. He even offered to make them out of leather when I showed him the ones I got the last time I saw Dr. P. back in 2015.

"They don't have to be exactly the same," I told him. "As long as they work!"

Healthy Response

It was a beautiful, classic fall day here in DC on day one of the federal shutdown. And while nearly every federal employee I know had to go to work (evidently, these friends and family are essential, and not just to me), the sidewalks, parks, cafes, gym, and nail salon seemed full of people doing their best to consider this unpaid furlough as a welcome day off, if not a vacation. 

There was more dog walking, jogging, baby strolling, and general self-care going on on a weekday than I've seen since I retired.

Good for them! May the fair weather follow us all.